The Case of the Irish Ghost
by Mary le Bow
Summary: Reluctantly, Holmes agrees to investigate a supposed haunting. Watson and Gregson may regret going along.
1. Chapter 1

"Look at it, Watson." Holmes gestured in disgust toward what little could be seen of the late October afternoon outside. Nasty tendrils of yellow fog pressed against the windowpane. Holmes flicked his fingers at the glass as if to dispel the pea-souper. "Foul weather, foul inactivity..."

"Foul mood," Gregson whispered to me. I was glad of his presence. Between cases as Holmes was, and confined to the indoors by the weather, he was likely to alleviate his ennui with a dose of cocaine. While the use of the drug was not illegal, few were so bold as to inject themselves with it in the company of a police inspector.

"Not a blessed thing to occupy my mind," Holmes muttered.

_Except self-pity_, I thought, but said, "Why not take your mind off the emptiness, then? Join Gregson and me by the fire."

We were quite comfortably ensconced in the armchairs either side of the hearth, away from the disheartening sight of the fog, and well-supplied with brandy and cigars—although Gregson was experiencing some difficulty with his.

I gestured to his bandaged left hand. "Does this sort of thing happen often?"

"Oh, yes. I've been punched, kicked, slapped, spat on, and once, an irate lady hit me with a purse that I could swear had bricks in it. Although this was the first time a suspect managed to slam a door on my hand." Gregson balanced his cigar in the ashtray and took up the brandy.

"The fingers aren't broken, though?"

"No, only bruised, swollen, and unusable. Quite a nuisance."

"You aren't left-handed, fortunately," I observed.

"That's what I told the police surgeon, but he insisted I take time off, anyway." He exchanged the brandy for the cigar. But for his obvious frustration, the rather minor disability would have been cause for amusement. "I never take time off. I don't like it."

"There's nothing to do," Holmes sighed from the window.

Gregson turned to him in eager agreement. "My point exactly."

"Oh, come now," I said, in no mood to commiserate with either of them. "Gregson, a change will do you good. As for you, Holmes, surely there is something here worthy of your much-vaunted mental powers." I picked up and slapped down the pile of unopened correspondence on the side table.

"Tales of lost trinkets and inconstant suitors," Holmes dismissed the letters.

"Better that than being sent home to take a nap, as if you were a child," Gregson muttered.

"This is ridiculous!" I snapped. "Gregson, you want work to do, but aren't allowed any. And Holmes, there is work you could do, but you insist upon moping at the window rather than doing it. You have diametrically opposed problems, which I intend to solve here and now. Gregson, choose a letter, please."

"But—" Gregson started to protest. Then, thinking perhaps of some entertainment value, however fleeting, he shrugged, and tapped a cream-colored envelope. "All right, that one."

I took up the envelope and broke the seal. "I will read it, and I will bet you, Holmes, that this letter contains some minor point of interest to you."

"It is of interest already," Holmes said, drifting over to join us. "Shall we attempt to deduce why Gregson has chosen this particular missive from the dozen at his disposal?"

"By all means," I said, handing it over.

Holmes examined the envelope, turning it over in his hands and holding it to the light. "A fine quality of stationery, I see, and decorated at its edge with a garland of roses and forget-me-nots. Blue ink, also good quality, and firm, distinctly feminine handwriting." He sniffed the paper. "Just as I suspected: a hint of lemon verbena. Our correspondent is a lady, young, financially well-off, and of a somewhat romantic, if not outright sentimental, frame of mind. I must congratulate you, Gregson. You have excellent taste, as such matters go."

"Thank you," Gregson replied, smirking. "But you couldn't be more wrong. It was the postmark."

At the look of dazed confusion that settled upon Holmes' face, I couldn't help laughing. "Surely, in your minute investigation of that envelope, you didn't miss so obvious a thing as the postmark, did you?"

With a scowl, Holmes turned the envelope over once more, this time to read it. "Ireland. What is the significance of that?"

"I've never been there," Gregson explained.

"Good Lord." Holmes tossed the letter down unopened. "Of all the banal motives— You disappoint me, Gregson. I had a faint hope of some interesting reason behind your selection."

"Aren't you going to read it?" asked the inspector.

"Certainly not."

"Then I will," I said, retrieving the letter and sliding it from its informative envelope. "It says, 'Dear Mr. Holmes-'"

"Letters addressed to me usually do."

Undaunted, I continued. "'I hesitate to write to you, as, having read what I must tell you, you may well believe that I have gone mad.' Well, that's promising."

"Hardly, Watson. The human species provides me with ample opportunities to believe that one of their number has gone mad."

I read the rest of the letter to myself, then presented its content in summary. "The lady—Miss Margaret O'Neill—writes that her brother has seen some sort of ghost. A _dullahan_, as she refers to it. Apparently, Irish folklore holds that to see this thing means one is marked to die. She claims that this has, quite understandably, upset her brother, who is of a somewhat nervous disposition. She, while apparently less fanciful by nature, finds that his fear is contagious. She lives in a constant state of anxiety regarding his welfare. Furthermore, she herself recently saw someone or some_thing_ lurking about the family home after dark."

"The lady is correct; I believe she _and _her fluttering nincompoop of a brother have gone mad. This is 1881, Watson, not 1681, which was the last time such things as ghosts were taken seriously by rational people."

"She isn't sure what she, or for that matter, her brother, saw. Following the suggestion of her fiance, who seems a level-headed sort, she asks you to look into the matter and determine what it was."

"No."

"There is the slight matter of the fee, and of the fact that our rent on this flat is soon due."

Holmes flung his hands in the air. "To such drastic measures does impecuniousness force us! Very well—conditionally. You, Watson, having argued the case so persuasively, must go with me."

"Gladly," I said.

"And you, Gregson. Until you are permitted to return to police work, you may as well make yourself useful as a liaison. We may require the cooperation of the Irish Constabulary before this case is sorted out."

Struggling mightily, if vainly, to keep a straight face, Gregson asked, "Just what is it you expect them to do about a ghost?"

"Nothing," Holmes answered, "since obviously one does not exist."


	2. Chapter 2

"Remind me in future, Watson," Holmes said, leaning against the deck rail, pipe in hand, "to make no further crossings of the Irish Sea by ferry in autumn."

"Done," I agreed. "Please don't smoke; you're making it worse."

Entirely unaffected by the heaving deck under our feet, the choppy waves on every side, and the cold salt spray in our faces, he went on in a blithe tone, "The water does seem a bit rough, even for the season. How are you faring?"

"I've been on forced marches more enjoyable, thank y—_Gregson, don't look at the waves_!" The inspector's pallor had acquired a greenish tint. With not a second to spare, I leaned his head out over the Irish Sea.

"Not to worry," Holmes said. "We'll be on land again in a few hours."

_Hours_, I thought in despair.

Gregson, clutching at the rail with his one good hand, was too violently ill to comment.

"Holmes, for heaven's sake!" The corners of my friend's mouth had begun to twitch with suppressed laughter. Sometimes I detected an unbecoming streak of sadism in him. "Go and find a steward. Tell him to bring some plain toast and a glass of lukewarm water with a pinch of salt in it."

"Please don't talk about food," Gregson moaned.

"Remember what I told you, Gregson. Look at the horizon. Keep your eyes on a fixed point." I had foreseen his current predicament the moment the inspector had cheerfully announced that he had never been on a boat. The poor fellow had spent his whole life in London; he had quite possibly never seen a natural horizon before today. Dragging him to Ireland seemed pure cruelty on Holmes' part.

Yet, much as the thought shamed me, there was something amusing about Inspector Gregson, enormous and healthy as a horse, brought low by seasickness.

"Let us hope," Holmes offered as a parting shot, "that the good inspector is never seconded to the Thames River Police. Boaters would lose all respect for law and order."

This remark provoked a second bout of illness from Gregson.

"Holmes! Go!" I shouted at him without remorse or scruple.

"Dr. Watson?" Gregson's voice was small and pathetic. "You won't tell anyone about this? If they found out at the Yard, I'd never hear the end of it."

My heart went out to him. "Of course I won't— _Gregson_! _Look at the horizon_!"

xXx

The hour was quite late when, apparently against all odds, we at last arrived at the O'Neill family home. Gregson had revived considerably upon being returned to _terra firma_, and Holmes had spent most of the ten miles from Dublin engaged in quiet cogitation.

I had imagined Ireland to be a land of peat bogs and swirling mist, but what little I could see of it under the dark, overcast sky looked remarkably like rural England. There had been, in the city, unpleasant reminders that we were in a land less civilized than ours. Particularly unnerving had been the sight of policemen openly carrying firearms.

I shook my head in astonishment. " Good heavens! What is this world coming to?"

"The RIC isn't Scotland Yard," Gregson reminded me. "They don't keep order so much as put down disorder."

"We tend to find what we look for," was Holmes' cryptic reply.

That, though, was miles behind us. Here in the country, there seemed only the peace of night. The home shared by Miss and Mr. O'Neill was a pleasant Georgian manor, set in a park enclosed by a high brick wall. The broad lawns and flower beds at the front of the house, on either side of a gravel drive, must have been splendid in summer. Tall oak trees ringed the sides and back of the house. The whole effect was of a comfortable and gracious home. A specter roaming its halls seemed a laughable notion.

I kept a mental tally of the individuals who lived here—the coachman who drove us from the village train station and dealt with our baggage, the maid who let us into the flagstone foyer. Presumably there would be other servants, maids, gardeners, a cook... It was impossible to keep servants in ignorance of their employers' doings. People whose job it was to maintain a household had sharp eyes for anything out of the ordinary. Their impressions of recent events might be invaluable. I considered suggesting that one of us should interview them in the morning, but surely Holmes would have already planned to do that.

In a pleasant, unostentatious parlor at the front of the house, the maid announced us. I was somewhat surprised to find a lady and not one, but two, gentlemen. Miss O'Neill, our hostess, received us kindly despite the late hour. She was, I should say, about twenty-four years of age, with light brown hair and blue eyes. Although no great beauty, she was possessed of an intelligent and honest face which did much to make her appealing.

She introduced her brother, who was some two years younger, similar in features and mature of manner, not at all the highly-strung twit Holmes' disparagement had led me to expect.

The other man, tall and slender, with a scholar's face and a soldier's bearing, was introduced as Miss O'Neill's fiance, Major James Moriarty.

Shaking his hand, Holmes inquired, "Are you by chance related to Professor James Moriarty?"

The major smiled. "He's my brother. Do you know him?"


	3. Chapter 3

The major smiled. "He's my brother. Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation. His treatise on _The Dynamics of an Asteroid _was fascinating."

"You understood it?" Major Moriarty asked in some considerable awe.

Holmes' face fell."You didn't?"

"Not a word," the major admitted cheerily.

An awkward silence fell, which I set myself to break. "Major, if I heard correctly, your name is James, and your brother's name is also-"

"James," said the major, with a wry shrug. "It was our father, James', idea. He was a fine man, but short on imagination."

"A common-enough condition," Holmes agreed, with a sidelong glance at the oblivious Gregson.

Mercifully, at that moment, the maid returned with a tea service and a plate of sandwiches. As Miss O'Neill poured, and her brother passed the plate, we naturally, as well-brought-up people do, turned to polite smalltalk. Mr. O'Neill and I were in the midst of an engrossing discussion of the local fishing when Holmes—who had accepted neither food nor drink—spoke up.

"I do not wish to interrupt this charming party," he said, "but may I know something more about the reason for your summons, Miss O'Neill?"

"I thought I had made that clear in my letter to you," Miss O'Neill said, setting her cup and saucer down with some haste. "Must we discuss it tonight?"

"It's stuff and nonsense that brings you here, Mr. Holmes," Major Moriarty interjected, not unkindly. "Michael, it's as I told you—you've been working too hard, you're under a strain, and your eyes played tricks on you. It could happen to anyone."

"And were my eyes playing tricks on me?" Miss O'Neill asked him, in a tone that would have made a less self-confident man quail.

"Frankly, yes, my dear," the major said. "Dr. Watson can explain mass hysteria better than I can, though."

"Are you so sure that is the explanation, Major?" I asked.

"Of course it is!" The question seemed to offend him. "What else could it possibly be?"

"That," Holmes said mildly, "is what I have come here to find out—and seemingly at your behest, Major Moriarty."

"Well, you _know_ they didn't see a ghost."

"On the contrary. I do not know what anyone saw, or did not see."

Gregson and I looked at each other in frank amazement at this statement, a nearly complete reversal of every opinion Holmes had held up to now.

"Gentlemen, please." Miss O'Neill put her hands to her temples. "It is nearly midnight, and this has been a long day for all of us. Let us take this matter up again in the morning."

"Now that is a very sensible plan," said the major. The man was beginning to get on my usually steady nerves. The effect was increased when he took Miss O'Neill's arm and bid us goodnight for himself and the lady. Fiances were allowed certain liberties, but so far as I knew, staying the night wasn't one of them.

Michael O'Neill caught my disapproving look. He leaned in and whispered, "Don't worry, Dr. Watson; it's perfectly proper. I lock them in their rooms at night."

So exhausted was I by the multitudinous events of the day, that I could not determine whether or not he was serious. Unwilling to leave any detail to chance, when I was shown to the room that was to be mine, I made certain that a key was in the lock. Then I locked the door and hid the key under my pillow.

No sooner had I lay down and shut my eyes, than there was a tapping upon the door. Sighing, I lit the candle, recovered the key, opened the door, and beheld Holmes. Grudgingly, I stepped aside and allowed him to enter the room.

"Watson, did you notice anything peculiar about our hosts' behavior?" He didn't seem the least bit tired.

"Yes," I said. "Major Moriarty is annoying, Miss O'Neill is evidently the brains of the company, and Mr. O'Neill has a dry wit."

"Aside from that."

I stifled a yawn. "No, Holmes, I didn't. Enlighten me, then let me go to bed."

Sarcasm was wasted on him. "Did you not find it unusual that no one was willing to discuss the matter with which they requested—and are paying for—my assistance? Have you ever encountered a client who did not immediately tell me all I cared to know, plus a great deal I did not, about his or her problem?"

"Now that you mention it, that is odd," I said, partly because it was and partly in hope that, having secured my agreement, he would go away.

My answer satisfied him; he said, "Good night, then, Watson," and at last I was left to my much-needed rest.


	4. Chapter 4

In the sunlit morning, over an excellent breakfast, the idea of a restless spirit seemed yet more preposterous than it had the night before. Even so, Holmes asked Mr. O'Neill to describe the thing he had seen.

With a nervous swallow, the young man pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. He glanced at his sister, who nodded. Whether the gesture constituted permission to smoke at the table or encouragement to speak, I couldn't tell.

"It would be hard to mistake a _dullahan_, Mr. Holmes," he said, trying and failing to achieve a light tone. "It rides a spectral black horse, and hasn't any head. Or rather, it has one, but carries it in its hand."

Even steady Gregson looked surprised. "You mean its head is cut off?"

"I know how it sounds, Inspector."

"Without a head, how can it see to ride? Does the horse have a head?"

"Yes, the bloody horse has-" Mr. O'Neill snapped. Then as quickly as he had lost control over his emotions, he regained it. "I beg your pardon," he said, with a wry smile. "I don't mean to be rude as well as mad."

"I suspect, sir, that you are neither, under ordinary circumstances," Holmes said, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth. "Where were you when you saw this?"

The answer necessitated a trip to the young man's study, a corner room on the ground floor. Despite the bright daylight, the heavy furniture and laden bookshelves gave the room a somber, almost oppressive air. It did not seem to suit him.

"It was our father's," Miss O'Neill said, as if sensing that an explanation was called for. "He passed away last year."

"He was the MP for our district," Mr. O'Neill added, shuffling a stack of papers on a desk as untidy as Holmes' own. "I inherited the job, so to speak. It's given me a great deal of respect for him. Until I tried it, I had no idea what the poor man was up against."

I began to appreciate the pressure this very young man was under. Perhaps Major Moriarty had a point; it would be no wonder if Mr. O'Neill's eyes occasionally played tricks on him.

"You have no secretary," Holmes said. It was a statement rather than a question.

"In London, when Parliament is in session, my father's former secretary keeps my affairs in some semblance of order. At home, though, Peggy-" He shot a quick smile at his sister. "-does most of that sort of thing."

Major Moriarty returned us to the topic. "You said you were at the window the first time."

"Yes." Mr. O'Neill shook his head, as if dispelling some distraction. "It was quite late, Mr. Holmes, after eleven. I had been working for some hours—since dinner, as I recall. I got up to stretch my legs and have a smoke."

"Where exactly?" Holmes asked.

"Here." The young man went to the window and leaned an elbow on the sill. "I looked out, so. It was there." He pointed to the sheltering tall oaks, which at that spot grew in such a way as to create a small grove some fifty feet from the house. "It saw me; it pointed at me with a finger more like a claw than anything natural."

I could imagine the scene: the horrifying apparition, the man's sudden terror at the sight of such a fey thing... Even in the warm morning sun, I felt a sudden chill.

Holmes observed the now quite mundane little grove. "You must have exceptional eyesight, Mr. O'Neill. That is a fair distance at which to observe in detail, particularly in the dark."

"What did you do when you saw it?" Gregson asked.

"I don't mind telling you, I screamed like a little girl." Mr. O'Neill managed a shaky laugh at his own expense.

Holmes turned to Miss O'Neill. "Where were you at the time?"

"In my bedroom. I ran down when I heard Michael shout."

"And you, Major?"

Major Moriarty and Miss O'Neill exchanged a guilty look. They spoke over each other.

"I had gone to see if-"

"-to say goodnight to me-"

Holmes' expression did not alter. "You were both in Miss O'Neill's bedroom, then? What you were doing there, and why, is not my concern. I merely wish to establish where you were."

My doubts of the previous evening about the propriety of this household returned. It occurred to me that no one in the house was even thirty years old, and that Mr. O'Neill, although the head of the family and the lady's brother, was the youngest, and felt neither able nor willing to chaperone his elder sister.

"We're to be married at Christmas," Miss O'Neill said huffily. It was not easy to cast her in the role of naïve young girl being taken advantage of.

"I congratulate you," Holmes answered. "In the meantime, you say that you ran downstairs after you heard the shout."

She nodded. "Yes."

"And you, Major?"

"I followed as soon as I had lit a lamp."

"Ah." Holmes might have tortured the man a bit longer, by asking why the lamp had been out in the first place, but that information was of no use to him. "Shall we say, then, that both of you were in this room within five minutes?"

"Yes," Miss O'Neill answered for both.

"And what did you do?"

"Michael told us what had happened." She bit her lip. "We didn't believe him."

"And did you go outside?"

"I did," Moriarty said. "No one was there."

"A week later, it was back," Mr. O'Neill said. "It was outside the window, looking in at me again."

"Have you seen it while anywhere other than in this room?"

"No." He shuddered.

"I have," Miss O'Neill said.


End file.
